I’ve never been thin. But if these anti-obesity drugs put me off my dinner, count me out
When I was an adolescent, large of thigh and round of belly, I dreamed of a drug that would make me thin: a couple of pills a day, similar to aspirin, which would render me slender and gorgeous so that the girls I wanted to snog would stop thinking of me only as best friend material. Now I am an adult, large of thigh and round of belly, and it seems the very drug I dreamed of has arrived. It is a weekly injection called semaglutide and it promises immense results. The NHS has been given the go-ahead to prescribe it for weight loss or you can get it from private clinics. For a couple of hundred quid a month, you can jack yourself up on a drug which, by mimicking the hormone that makes you feel full, acts as a magnificent appetite suppressant. The excess weight falls away. My fantasy future is here.
It’s sold under the brand names Wegovy and Ozempic, which sound comfortingly like self-assembly bookshelves from Ikea, and they really do sound great. Until you get to the common side-effects: nausea, diarrhoea and in many cases a desperate sense of revulsion at the very thought of food. It’s as if the pharmaceutical companies’ new product development departments had taken their inspiration from an early episode of the ribald, gloriously filthy animated series Rick and Morty in which the devil sets up shop handing out enchanted items which come with curses. He gives lonely Mr Goldenfold an aftershave which makes him irresistible to women. Only it also makes him impotent. Well now, here’s the real-life version: yes, this drug will make you lose weight, arse over thigh, but it will also make you hate the thing you once most loved. As the devil says: ‘A price for everything, Mr Goldenfold. A price for everything.’
